


The Truth of It, Part Two

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: The Truth of It [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Casual Sex, Derek Leaves, Ficlet, M/M, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Tattooed Stiles, brief mentions of alcohol and weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stood in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom of his apartment in Iowa City and gingerly pulled the bandage from the fresh tattoo, his first. He winced at the sting of the tape and the hiss of cool air against the abused patch just over his heart, slightly red and a little swollen. His eyes flicked back and forth between his reflection and down to his chest, the ink so solid and vibrant it seemed to glow darkly on his skin, uncharacteristically tan from his travels.</p><p>(Stiles didn’t tell Scott, or anyone for that matter, about that first tattoo. Six months later, when he got his second, a wolf-bite on his hip in the same spot where Peter had bitten Scott six years prior, the day before he met Derek, he skyped Scott immediately to show him, and they both cried.)</p><p>He didn’t cry though, with that first one, not when got it and not when he studied the black swirls on his chest after he removed the bandage. He had spent the previous two months crying the last of his tears for Derek Hale, and this tattoo was to remind him of that fact, an acknowledgement of Derek’s inextricable hold over his heart, even if he is the one who unknowingly shattered it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth of It, Part Two

**Author's Note:**

> A companion ficlet to [The Truth of It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3239018), from Stiles' perspective. Photo from [sterekdimples](http://sterekdimples.tumblr.com/post/83788573269).
> 
> Thank you for your lovely comments, darlings!! xoxo

Stiles stood in front of the mirror in the tiny bathroom of his apartment in Iowa City and gingerly pulled the bandage from the fresh tattoo, his first. He winced at the sting of the tape and the hiss of cool air against the abused patch just over his heart, slightly red and a little swollen. His eyes flicked back and forth between his reflection and down to his chest, the ink so solid and vibrant it seemed to glow darkly on his skin, uncharacteristically tan from his travels.

(Stiles didn’t tell Scott, or anyone for that matter, about that first tattoo. Six months later, when he got his second, a wolf-bite on his hip in the same spot where Peter had bitten Scott years prior, the day before he met Derek, he skyped Scott immediately to show him, and they both cried.)

He didn’t cry though, with that first one, not when got it and not when he studied the black swirls on his chest after he removed the bandage. He had spent the previous two months crying the last of his tears for Derek Hale, and this tattoo was to remind him of that fact, an acknowledgement of Derek’s inextricable hold over his heart, even if he is the one who unknowingly shattered it.

Stiles leaned against the counter and thumbed through the album on his phone titled **Glarek –** thirteen perfect, priceless photos – stopping on his favorite, the one he showed the tattoo artist, the one he snapped their second summer together ( _or sorta together, whatever_ ), after his first year of undergrad. He had been worried – terrified, actually – that the summer after graduation had been a fluke – an utterly magical fluke, three months laughing and cuddling with Derek, screwing like crazy all day and all night in his giant, luxurious bed…and on his couch and on his stairs and in his kitchen and in the Camaro and in the Jeep, and once, in a storage closet in the sheriff’s station while Chris Argent and Jordan Parrish were right outside the door, Stiles biting into Derek’s fist to keep from crying out as he thrust into him from behind, teeth clamped on his hickied neck.

He had no delusions about having a serious relationship with Derek, but he was hoping, kinda desperately, that they could pick up where they left off when he came back to Beacon Hills after freshman year. And goddamn, Stiles had be so relieved, so happy, when Derek welcomed him back into his house with a long hug, and then an eager, hungry kiss. _I just got back from a run_ , he had murmured into his cheek. _Wanna help me get cleaned up?_ Stiles had grinned stupidly and followed him to the shower, so ecstatic he wanted to capture the moment, slipped his phone from his pocket and snapped the pic just as Derek was pulling off his shirt, revealing his beautifully sculpted back, the ridges and planes Stiles was aching to refamiliarize himself with, the Hale triskele dark and curving, beckoning him to trace its curves with his tongue again.

Later that night, Derek curled low around him, bearded face nuzzled into his ribs, clutching him gently in his sleep, Stiles studied  the picture, throat tightening more and breath going shallower the longer he stared at it, pondering not Derek’s exquisite body, but the casual intimacy of the moment, the ease and comfort with which Derek welcomed him back.

It was almost as if he thought Stiles belonged there, and Stiles knew that didn’t really mean anything – he’s pack after all, and besides, they practically lived together last summer – but the excitement, the warm hope the possibility of it sent through him made him roil with emotions that at once threw so many things into sharp relief while also hopelessly confusing him.

He understood then, the hand not clutching his phone resting lightly on Derek’s warm, muscled forearm where it was strewn across Stiles’ stomach, why all of his attempts to date and hook up during his first year of college had been so disappointing. He had thought that his summer with Derek and the most incredible sex anyone has ever had, ever, as far as Stiles was concerned – had just ruined him for all other sex.

But that feeling, the swoop and twist of sweet hope and new, exciting warmth that he felt when he realized how much he wanted Derek to want him here, how much he wanted Derek to want _him_ , all of him, not just their insanely hot sex: that’s what he was missing with all the others.

Stiles put his phone back on the nightstand and moved to pet Derek’s hair, sighing at how it felt even softer than he remembered, longer too, silky and smooth. He never wanted this either, with any of the guys he slept with in the previous year. Never wanted any of them to hold him close through the night, sleep curled around him effortlessly like Derek always had, easily.

Which was weird, because he and Derek agreed, more than once, that they were just casual, that sex was all there was between them.

( _Bullshit,_ Stiles silently admonished himself the very first time he said that, after he kissed Derek, sloppy and reckless, the night of his high school graduation, and miraculously, Derek had kissed him back. There had been something…maybe _everything_ , between them long before that hurried and risky first kiss, a reluctant trust that became a mutual recognition of respect, of hidden depths and wounds and loyalties, and he knew it, even then, even if he refused to admit it to himself.)

Stiles knew when he kissed him that first time that a real relationship with Derek was a lost cause, an impossibility ( _but you also once thought werewolves were impossible_ ). Derek could date anyone he wanted, and Stiles knew he couldn’t compete in his league. And besides, with Derek’s tragic relationship past, not to mention Stiles’ impending departure to college out of state, a choice he made to escape the chaotic, supernatural traumas of Beacon Hills. Starting a relationship – with _Derek_ , of all people – didn’t make any sense ( _he told himself_ ).

So he pushed the hope away, forced himself to ignore the ever-growing swells of affection for him, and decided to just be happy with what he had, with whatever Derek was willing to give him.

He went on to spend that summer and the next two letting himself believe that he was perfectly okay with their casual arrangement.

(And when he’d returned to school each fall, he’d go back to his occasional, random, empty fucks that rarely left him as satisfied as all those times he jacked off to photos and memories of Derek.)

And years later, a year and a half after his last summer with Derek, Stiles stood in his dim bathroom in a new city and stared at the black triskele on Derek’s back in his favorite photo of him, and then at the smaller, fresh one over his own heart, and he finally accepted the fact that he has always and will always love Derek Hale.

**~*~**

Stiles had never been more excited when he got his acceptance email from the notoriously competitive Iowa Writer’s Workshop, even if he had his hesitations about heading into such a rigorous graduate program after an exhausting four years of undergrad (a double degree in history and comparative literature with a writing minor). It made him feel restless, claustrophobic in his own life, and so a week later when the opportunity to spend the summer traveling through South America with his roommates came up, he jumped at it.

He thought about Derek, of course, about how it would be his first summer in years not spent in the thrall of his touch. He texted Derek to let him know that he wouldn’t be home at the beginning of June as usual and he only replied with a terse _Okay. Safe travels. And congratulations, on everything._

Stiles wasn’t delusional enough to hope for any kind of protest or a confession of love, _a please don’t go, come home_ , but an _I’ll miss you_ wasn’t so much to ask for was it?

Of course, Stiles didn’t say it either, so he couldn’t begrudge Derek for it too much, even though he wished he could, wished he could feel anything but the dull constant ache of longing for the man who only ever wanted him for sex.

**~*~**

The call was going to cost him a fortune, who knows the the international rates and roaming charges for a Peru to US call, but Stiles was extremely drunk on the local liquor and had no more fucks to give. He had made that his mission since that afternoon in the internet café in Machupicchu when he read the email from Scott, sent nine days prior, telling him that Derek moved back to Portland without so much as a goodbye.

Stiles felt hollow as he read it, vision blurring with hot tears, unsure of why he felt so betrayed, so abandoned and rejected, knew rationally that he left first and Derek doesn’t owe him anything, but that didn’t change how the how it felt like his heard was fracturing along a thousand Derek Hale-shaped fault lines.

And so he got very drunk, and, deep in his cups, said fuck it to his cell phone bill and called Derek, unsure of what exactly he was going to say but just needing to hear his voice, needing to know that he was okay, to ask him why he left the way he did, to finally tell him how he felt, how he’d always felt because he couldn’t take it anymore, loving him without having him.

Stiles thought about how no matter how long he’d been away or no matter how much he tried to avoid thinking about him, Derek had always been with him, was always hovering at the back of his mind, in the nooks of his heart. He thought about how he should have said _I love you_ a hundred different times but never had the courage, was paralyzed by the fear of pity and rejection he was so sure he would be answered with. He thought about how he was drunk enough to rationalize that fear away right along with the cost of the phone call, spurred on by the news of Derek’s flee from Beacon Hills and the booze-bright memories of kisses and touches that felt soul-shakingly gentle, that seemed to contradict his disavowals of feelings with every more-than-casual touch. Surely there was enough between them that Derek could learn to love him, couldn’t he?

Stiles leaned against the wall outside the rowdy tourist bar, dizzy in the cool, thin air, phone to his ear, listening to the distant ring, over and over again.

Derek wasn’t answering, and it wasn’t even going to voicemail.

Stiles called again, and then one more time, to the same result. Either Derek’s phone was off, or he had gotten a new number altogether. And he didn’t bother to tell Stiles about any of it.

He called one more time, hoping with desperate futility that he’d answer, and he let it ring and ring and ring until eventually he couldn’t hear the sound of Derek not answering him over his wracked sobs.

**~*~**

Towards the end of the first year of his MFA, Stiles found himself with an honest-to-god boyfriend for seven months, until Caleb cheated on him and then blamed Stiles for being distant and withdrawn, so obsessed with his “ex,” always not-so-secretly staring at those pictures of him on his phone.

(Once, during their third summer together, Stiles left Derek stoned in bed while he went to a sheriff’s department event with his dad that he couldn’t get out of, and Derek teased him the entire time by sending increasingly pornographic selfies, which Stiles has been getting off to ever since).

Stiles couldn’t really argue with any of it and felt bad about not feeling worse. He had a few more casual relationships, was more upfront about his inability to commit to anyone, and managed to mostly stave off the loneliness and the waves of longing for the most beautiful, perfect, damaged man whose absence from his life felt like the phantom of a limb he didn’t even know he had until he lost it.

**~*~**

Stiles earns his MFA and then goes straight into a Library Science program in Austin, Texas so he can at least stand a chance at being employable; he makes some good friends, works on his novel and publishes several of the short stories from his MFA thesis.

(Stiles publishes under a pseudonym, which he tells people is because his name is so weird, but it’s really has more to do with the one consistent theme in his stories and wanting some anonymity to a certain werewolf. “I’m truly impressed,” his thesis advisor said at his defense, “with your insightful rumination on various iterations of the brooding Byronic hero, and how you weave it so effortlessly with the more fantastic, magical-realist elements of your stories. Particularly ‘Abomination,’ your re-telling of the wolfman legend. That story’s emotional depth and raw sensuality are remarkable.” Stiles had nodded in thanks, knuckles white.)

He thinks about Derek every day, stares at the pictures on his phone, runs his hand over the triskele on his heart, wonders what he would say if he had the courage to call him again, wonders what he would have said if Derek had answered on that blue moonlit night in Peru.

And when he finishes his second masters, Stiles applies to a couple jobs in San Francisco and a couple in Seattle, but focuses his search on Portland, and doesn’t bother lying to himself anymore about his motivations.

**~*~**

He’s been living in Portland for nearly six months when runs into Derek at Powell’s, so surprised and excited that one of his countless daydreams about finding him is finally coming true, the afternoon getting more magically perfect when Derek invites him over, welcomes him so easily into his space yet again like Stiles isn’t a stranger.

It’s uncanny, this new Derek, so very much like the Derek of his memories but somehow so different too. He’s still unbelievably handsome – beauty like that doesn’t fade, no matter the ravages of time – but his razor-sharp edges seemed to have softened a bit, gentling him. His beard is fuller than Stiles has ever seen it, his hair a little shaggy too. His eyes are still rainbows that transcend description, enthralling swirls and sways of blues and greens and golds.

Derek’s penchant for tight Henleys seems to have withstood the passage of time as well, the tight black shirt unbuttoned down the front to reveal his thick chest hair, and when Stiles sees it, standing in the graphic novel section of Powell’s, he has such a vivid memory of the first time he came all over that dark patch that he nearly sways with dizziness, blood rushing to his cock in a burst of arousal that he knows damn well Derek scents, those cursed eyebrows of his rising slightly (god, how far gone is Stiles that he missed the man’s _eyebrows_?).

Of course Derek is still unfairly ripped, easy to see the hard lines of his body underneath his snug clothes. He’s so unbearably breathtaking and thrilling to look upon Stiles can’t believe he’s been settling for a handful of photos all these years, and regardless of what they were or what they are or what they will be, Stiles just _needs_ to have Derek back in his life.

In those long moments when they stood, stunned, letting the years of distance and silence echo between them and say their piece, Stiles wondered how different he must look to Derek now, wondered what he might think of his tattoos (he has five now), what he will think of _the_ tattoo, if Stiles ever finds the courage to show him, to expose his feelings for him so completely.

And then, all of that and the vast expanse of time that separated them seemed to fall away and for a moment it felt as if the last decade hadn’t happened; like Stiles was still sixteen years old and in the woods and stammering and stuttering at Derek’s uncanny beauty.

In that moment he knew he was on the cusp of something, and he wasn’t sure what but it was exciting and terrifying, and that’s exactly how he felt again, meeting Derek anew, standing on this precipice together yet again.

In Derek’s apartment, when he sees the photo of himself, framed, even though it looks to be only recently so, the paper weathered and smudged under the fingerprint-covered glass, Stiles finally _knows_ , heart bursting with it, with the proof it right here in his hands, what he was on the cusp of, today and a decade ago in the woods, and it’s _this_ , this moment.

This moment when he realizes that Derek loves him too.

**~*~**

“I remember when you took that picture,” Stiles murmurs into Derek’s chest. They’ve been cuddling, fully clothed, on Derek’s unmade for hours now, talking here and there but mostly just resting in their embrace, marveling at each other, reacquainting themselves.

There’s no rush to have sex, even though the passion that dominated their summers together is still there, simmering just under the surface, ready to break free once they’ve become accustomed to one another again, once they’ve reassured themselves that they can both finally be truthful.

“You do?” Derek asks, quiet, hopeful, hand stroking lovingly along the curve of Stiles neck as he presses him closer into his broad, warm chest, a feeling of _home_ washing over him, warming him through to his very bones.

“Yeah, we were baked, and I was teasing you for playing with that old fashioned camera.” Stiles scoots up so he’s facing Derek eye to eye. “And you, very earnestly, said that you were a misunderstood old soul.”

Derek stills looks extraordinarily lovely when he blushes, Stiles is not at all surprised but very pleased to learn. He nearly melts into nothingness when his blush coincides with that little ducking chin-dip he does, bashful, dark lashes fluttering, a gesture and constellation of virtues that has haunted Stiles’ every moment, waking and asleep, since he first saw it, the night he took the biggest risk of his life and kissed him for the first time.

“And I laughed,” Stiles goes on, grinning at the memory, sheer joy at being in Derek’s arms again bubbling through him. “Because you were so, so stoned, and so, so serious.”

Derek laughs, a rich, throaty sound. “I remember now,” he says. “You asked me how old I was in dog years. Could barely get the words out because you thought you were so funny.”

Stiles buries his laughter into Derek’s shirt, breathes him in.

“That’s when I took the photo,” Derek murmurs into his temple. “God, you’re so gorgeous when you laugh. When you do anything. So beautiful, my Stiles.” He runs a big, trembling hand down Stiles’ spine, sending shivers across every last inch of his skin, heart fluttering.

The kiss is long and meandering, all slow-burn and simmering heat, years of longing and frustration and regret, passion and need, bright and alive. Drunk on it, on him, on Derek finally being his to love freely, Stiles’ hands find the hem of Derek’s too-tight shirt and peel it off, whining in delight to have his muscled, hairy perfection under his hands again. He’s so wrapped up in him he forgets to warn Derek about his tattoo, lets him slip his t-shirt over his head and is confused for a minute as to why Derek pulls back suddenly, eyes wide.

“Um,” Stiles mutters, face burning up, searching Derek’s shocked expression. “I didn’t have a printed photo to frame so…” he mutters lamely, hoping Derek will understand.

Derek’s hands are a whispered promise across the ink, tender, like he thinks it’s fragile or something, like it might disintegrate under his touch, the shock in his eyes going to awe and wonder as he fingers its swirls, the echo of his own tattoo, totem for Stiles’ never-ending love for him. Derek scoots down the bed and pulls him closer, breath soft and warm across his skin, placing a tender, loving kiss right in the center of it, right over Stiles’ pounding, happy heart.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [deleted-scenes](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/) on the Tumbles.


End file.
